


Pain with Purpose

by athos



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftercare, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Kink, Consensual beatings, Good Boyfriend Cullen, Impact Play, M/M, Passive Suicidal Ideation, Service Top Iron Bull, Warrior Trevelyan - Freeform, passive self-harm, polyamory-ish, rough-housing, stress relief through physical catharsis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 19:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8114245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athos/pseuds/athos
Summary: Trevelyan is being careless in battle by seeking pain to deal with stress. When Cullen realizes, he brings in the Iron Bull to help Asher more safely. Cullen and Trevelyan are in a relationship, and Trevelyan has an impact scene with Iron Bull that Cullen arranges. I plan to write a sequel of sorts (might be an additional chapter or a separate work) including kinky shenanigans between the three of them (which will be rated E).





	

**Author's Note:**

> This began when I wanted to write up what I was feeling during a scene I had-- I got home from the club at 12 and wrote until 2 am. For context: I have been in the local kink scene for 8 years, I have known the person who topped me for 2 years (xie is a very experienced top, has taken/taught classes on how to do this safely (although we’re both more RACK than SSC)) and we are close friends. We had been discussing a rough body play scene like this for several months (not that it takes month of talk before you have a scene; we’re both just busy). 
> 
> In this fic, the discussion and negotiation happens off-screen. Asher waves off more information because I didn’t want to write about talking about the scene; I wanted to write the scene. If you’re doing kinky shenanigans, don’t wave off discussion! You can’t give informed consent without information. 
> 
> [fic spoiler] In this story, Cullen and Bull arrange a scene for Trevelyan, which is bad novice kink practice but easier writing for me. Do not be passive in your kink negotiations. Having a D-type arrange a scene for you sounds hot (and can be hot, sure) but requires lots of communication and trust and history and other stuff that’s super important, but not relevant to this particular story.
> 
> Kink responsibly. 
> 
> Also, the Asher Trevelyan in this story is not the same as in "With Intent". I just like the name, so I stuck with it.

 

   
  


He can’t sleep, again, his mind tugged between worries. He keeps his breathing smooth and even, not wanting to disturb Cullen sleeping beside him. No nightmares (yet) for either of them tonight. Asher knows that evading nightmares by staying awake doesn’t count as success, but even the athletic sex they had a few hours ago (and which he’s willing to bet is responsible for Cullen’s current restful state) isn’t coaxing him to sleep. Tonight he’d gotten two orgasms out of his lover, the first with his mouth and the second with Cullen riding him, his hips rotating in tight circles, keeping Asher’s cock rubbing against his sweet spot. 

 

_ That _ was good.  _ That _ was something Asher could control. Everything else? It’s all a lie.

 

He doesn’t think he’s ever been pulled in so many directions before, had so many responsibilities. He’d been raised to lead, but the mess he was in now… Ever since he’d crawled out from the dusty rubble of the Temple, he felt like he’d been racing from one “this will kill us all” catastrophe to another, barely hanging on, terrified that the lives of so many people depended on him.

 

His usual approach to feeling overwhelmed was to focus on one thing at a time. Though he hasn’t thought of it in some time, he remembers when he first started training with a sword. His first weaponsmaster was direct with correction, instantly doling out sharp taps with the flat of his blade that stung like mad every time Asher made an error. The first several days of training were extremely painful. The other young nobles who learned with him complained bitterly, toothlessly threatening the unimpressed swordsman with, “Wait until my father finds out…”.  After seeing his own improvement, though, Asher found that each blow wasn’t something to be ashamed of. Instead, each sudden, painful correction had him re-focused on his task. Each moving ache reminded him that he was expected to be better, that he could be better. His mind made it encouragement, not punishment, and the change in perspective drove him to excel. 

 

That was… fifteen, twenty years ago? Now he’s far from home, he’s got this fucking glowing mark on his hand, people insist he’s the chosen one, and now he’s leading this Inquisition and he’s just… it’s all an illusion. He’s not special, he wasn’t chosen, the Maker isn’t giving him instructions, eventually his luck will run out (his _ luck, _ ha) and everyone will know that he doesn’t have control over  _ anything, _ nothing at all. The real fucked up thing is that, at this point, they can no longer replace him. He is--irrevocably--the face of the Inquisition. People know his name--Asher Trevelyan.  _ “He’s the Inquisitor; we can trust Andraste’s chosen; he’ll save us all.” _

 

They’re all completely screwed. 

 

He doesn’t know what to do. In some sense --the most practical sense-- it doesn’t matter that he’s unqualified and making shit up as he goes. If he’s it, then he’s it, so he better continue doing his best, even if his best is insufficient. 

 

Stoic practicality, however, can no longer hold up to the mounting stress, and the horrible reality is that he’s more and more certain that it won’t be enough, that  _ he _ won’t be enough, that he’ll fail and everyone will know he was a mistake, and it will be too late to correct him.

 

He pushes those thoughts aside, turns, and pulls Cullen’s sleep-warm body to him. Chest pressed to Cullen’s bare back, he nuzzles into the blond curls at the nape of the man’s neck. At least he has this. This is solid. He can hang on to this. 

  
  


*****

 

A slow reaction to a gurgut’s meaty tail again reminds him of his weaponsmaster--the impact is profound, even though his armor absorbs some of it, and the energy of the strike surges through him, rattling the bones in his chest, bright and painful. His next mighty blow cleaves the creature in twain. Varric laughs triumphantly, shaking his head at the two twitching halves of monster. Asher looks for the next one to kill, residual pain singing in his blood; part of him is disappointed that there are no more creatures to slay. Nevertheless, he suddenly feels better than he has in weeks; he feels centered and focused, filled with energy. All from being too slow to dodge the gurgut’s tail.

 

_ Careful, Asher… _

 

The next time, it’s not an accident. He pulls a block and angles his arm so that the Freemarcher’s shield clips him enough to really fucking hurt, but not seriously injure him, and the pain lights him up, burns out his doubts, thrills him with its intensity. He achieves the same state three more times in the field, balancing his need for the feeling that taking a blow gives him against his as-yet-uncompromised desire to live, and his responsibility to keep his companions from further harm. 

 

The sixth time he miscalculates and, if the combination of Dorian freezing the Greater Terror and Bull shattering it with his maul had been a half-second slower, he would have been dead. He makes the decision not to tempt fate in the field again. The adrenaline rush of almost-but-not-quite dying grounds him, a bit, but it’s not as good, not enough... 

 

He, Dorian and Sera share a bottle of booze that night at camp and agree, even as they finish it off, that the damned Wardens should have buried the bottle deeper in the ground. Bull doesn’t join them, but Asher feels his steady gaze all night.

 

Back at Skyhold he dedicates more time to sparring with his friends. He reasons that nothing can go irrevocably wrong at the stronghold. Additionally, if people see him not being invincible, then maybe they’ll tone down the “chosen of Andraste’ tripe. Probably not, but he can hope.

 

Now, he can take careful measures of focusing pain without endangering anyone at all. Every time he misses a blow from Cassandra, Blackwall, Cullen, or Krem, he revels in it, grateful behind the mask he wears--rueful, as though he’s chagrined to have been too slow. He wonders, pressing his thumb hard into a bruise on his thigh one night, how he can get this, but  _ more; _ how long he can keep the bruises, those nodes of focus, without his friends becoming suspicious; how long he can refuse to take a swallow of elfroot after the minor injuries; how long before his clever friends realize that they’re landing hits more often than they used to. 

 

Part of him wants to be discovered, wants a friend to notice and be appalled, indignant, offended, to confront him. Then Asher would have an excuse to show his rage and frustration and defend his admittedly unorthodox coping mechanism.  _ This, _ it feels sometimes, is the only way he can be what they think he is.  _ This  _ is what enables him to be their precious Inquisitor, their only fucking hope. 

 

Look at what their collective expectations have driven him to do, forced him to rely upon, conditioned him to look forward to! Part of him is confused and ashamed by his actions--his fascination with and dependence on this careful pain--but that part is over-ruled by cold practicality. It works, it’s an acceptable risk, no one is being harmed but him.  Even so, another part of him knows that he’s being too reckless. But he  _ needs  _ it, needs  _ something,  _ and if anyone finds out that he’s intentionally getting hurt they’ll stop him. They’ll take this away from him and he’ll go back to being a breath away from dooming them all by walking off the battlements. Even as the thought crosses his mind, he knows there’s something wrong with it; his logic is like Cullen’s badly-patched roof. But it’s irrelevant, because he has a solution. No one’s noticed yet, and he still has time. 

 

*****

 

It is Cullen who notices and confronts him, but he does so in such a gentle way that Asher can’t bring himself to be defensive. He sits in a chair, head in his hands, and says, “Maker, I know it sounds awful, but--”

 

“Ash, no,” Cullen reassures, bending slightly to put a hand on Asher’s tense shoulder. “I understand, and I hate that you feel this way. I hate that it’s all on you. I wish I could do more. But what you’re doing, it can’t continue. Not like this.”

 

Asher looks up suddenly, eyes wide with rising panic, and babbles, “Cullen, I can’t, I can’t, I need, I-- I don’t know how to go back--”

 

“Shh, breathe,” Cullen says, going to one knee in front of Asher and holding his hands. “If you need pain like this to refocus, there are better ways to get it than by using your friends.”

 

Asher’s face falls in dismay. “Using…”

 

Cullen nods. “Blackwall and Cassandra are confused. Blackwall is starting to hold back when you train. That’s no good for anyone.”

 

Asher rubs his forehead. Shit. “Then what do I do?”

 

“Well, you find someone who can give you this pain in a completely controlled environment,” Cullen says reasonably, like it’s a normal request, “instead of risking your life being distracted during a fight because you’re looking for an auspicious opening.”

 

Asher sits for a moment, staring at the grain of the wood floor. Then he blinks and looks up at Cullen with his mouth parted in surprise. “You… Can you…?”

 

Cullen shakes his head with a small smile that is contradicted by the slight furrowing of his brow. “We called it ‘recalibration’ in the barracks, when someone oversaw a bad Harrowing or if someone was feeling guilty and couldn’t give it up, even after official punishment. I’ve done it for other Templars, but they were just comrades, not… I never loved them. Ash, I--” Cullen squeezes Asher’s hands. “I think I understand why you need this, but I cannot hurt you. Especially not knowing that I’m partially responsible for the burden you carry.”

 

Asher starts to object, but Cullen silences him with soft fingertips on his lips. “No,” he continues softly, eyes full of compassion, “I cannot do this for you, but I know someone who can.”

 

*****

 

He and Cullen talk extensively about how Asher felt when he was hurt, about his old weaponsmaster, about the relief he feels when pain from sparring evaporates his extraneous worries and focuses him, about Asher’s fears of failure and guilt for doubting, and about his desperation for  _ something _ that could make it better. Cullen promises to set something up for the next evening, and Asher waves away further detail. “I don’t want to know; I trust you,” he says, kissing Cullen gently. 

 

Asher both is and is not surprised to see the Iron Bull in their quarters the next evening. The Tal Vashoth nods at Cullen and pulls Asher forward into a firm hug. “I wish I’d said something sooner,” he says against the top of Asher’s head. Not that he’d noticed sooner, but that he’d said something. Maybe Asher wasn’t quite as subtle as he thought.

 

“Cullen and I discussed this,” Bull begins warmly, still holding him, “and I have a plan that I think will work for you, but I want to explain it first. The way I understand it, you’re afraid that if you fail, everything goes to shit forever. So I’m going to hurt you, put you in a position where you will fail,  _ but  _ we’re going to be here to catch you. You can fall here, with us, and still be safe.” Asher looks up and blinks at how succinctly Bull summarizes hours of angst and soul-deep confusion. “The other part is the pain itself. Cullen doesn’t think it’s a punishment thing; is that right?” He releases Asher, but does not move farther away.

 

Asher blinks again, disoriented with how easily Bull talks about this, but that can only be for the best, right? “No, not exactly. I haven’t done anything wrong; I know I’m doing my very best, but what if it’s not enough? And how does it make sense to bring more pain into my life when there’s already so much in the world?” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I know it’s a false equivalency, but I don’t know how the pain that… that  _ helps _ me is different.”

 

“Pain with purpose is different than random, senseless pain,” Bull says in his unflappable, completely reasonable way. “You  _ use _ the pain you feel, and that’s pretty special. Also smart. Life will always have pain and being able to use it to focus yourself? It’s fantastic. Not fantastic that you’re putting yourself at risk to get it, but we can fix that. Give you pain that will help you the way you need it to while not putting you at further risk.”

 

“And… you know how to do this?” Asher can’t hide his skepticism. 

 

“How to hurt someone exactly the way I intend to hurt them?” Bull bares his teeth in a grin. “Oh, yes.” 

 

Asher absently notices Cullen’s sudden flush in his peripheral vision. 

 

“Back to my plan. I’m going to hit you and give you deep bruises that will last for a while. I’m not going to break the skin, and I’m not going to leave any marks that can’t be completely covered by your clothes or armor.” He pauses meaningfully. “What I  _ am _ going to do is hurt you so that, for days afterward, all you’ll have to do is flex your shoulders or lean against something to re-activate the pain, to activate your focus. You’ll be able to move and fight, but the pain will be there.”

 

Asher swallows. Could this really work?

 

Bull continues, “If that doesn’t work as far as pain goes, we can try other things. But I’m pretty sure this will work  _ and  _ be safest for you. As for you failing--” he stops when he notices Asher’s expression. “Stop that. You’re not a failure.”

 

With effort, overtaken by the sudden wave of “ _ He knows, he’s right, I can’t do anything right, I’m hopeless”, _ Asher stops his sudden pacing and takes a deep breath. Bull watches him closely. “You’re living under unrealistic expectations for yourself,” he says firmly, “and I’m going to help you re-set them. I’m not going to tie you up. You’re going to face the desk there and brace yourself against it with your arms. I’m not going to stop hurting you until you say your watchword or until you physically can’t get up anymore. Then we’re going to build you back up, take good care of you.”

 

Cullen clears his throat. “I explained watchwords last night. He’ll say ‘Skyhold’ if he needs to stop.”

 

Bull nods. “Fair enough. Questions, Boss?”

 

Asher inhales shakily, a bit overwhelmed at how fast this is going and how spot-on Bull’s analysis is. He’s taken aback at how much he  _ wants _ what Bull is saying, even if the idea is starting to scare him, and if he thinks about it--

 

“No. Let’s do this.” He looks at Cullen, who sits on the couch watching them. “Will you stay?”

 

Cullen glances at Bull. “If you like. I will definitely be here for after.”

 

Bull grins again. “Are you really that eager to hurt or are you worried that you’ll talk yourself out of it if we wait?”

 

“You say snuffler, I say snowfleur,” Asher replies, squaring his shoulders.

 

Bull laughs, the sound filling the room. “Actually, I say ‘tasty’. But yes; let’s get started.” Bull walks toward Asher, and it’s impossible not to be a bit intimidated. When they’re standing face to--well, face to chest, Bull ruffles Asher’s hair and says with a friendly and warm smile, “You deserve to feel safe. I want to do this for you, and I-- _ we _ ,” he amends, nodding to Cullen, who has risen to join them, “we will keep you safe. Okay?”

 

Cullen is behind Asher now, embracing his lover warmly. “You are safe here, love,” he says softly, kissing the side of Asher’s neck. “We want to help, and we think this will work. I’m here, and I love you.”

 

Asher grasps Cullen’s hands tightly, pressing them closer to his midsection. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, and gasps when Cullen nips his earlobe and turns him around.

 

“Hush, you,” Cullen admonishes, and kisses him. Asher always marvels at how Cullen’s kisses impart specific meaning--this one isn’t lustful or arousing; instead Asher feels how much Cullen loves him and wants to reassure him. When they part for breath, Asher leans his forehead against Cullen’s. 

 

With a parting squeeze of Asher’s shoulders, Cullen steps back to the couch.

 

“You two look real good together,” Bull observes. “You ready, Boss?”

 

Asher nods.

 

“Good. Take off your shirt and put your hands flat on the desk.”  Asher obeys, tossing his shirt towards the bed and facing his desk. “Remember, we can stop any time. No shame in stopping. The only way you can do this wrong is to become afraid, to feel something we haven’t talked about, and not tell me about it. You can yell, you can cry, you can fight me. All of that is fine, but the only thing you can do to make me stop is say ‘Skyhold’. Do you understand?”

 

Asher nods again. Bull runs hot hands over his back, softly at first, soothing, but then with greater pressure, until he’s pulling at Asher’s skin.

 

“I’m gonna warm you up now.” The big hands on his upper back knead and massage in a way that feels wonderful and Asher sighs with pleasure. After a few minutes, once Asher’s back feels warm and loose, Bull begins hitting him lightly. Just when he’s about to turn his head and say something cavalier and ill-advised, Bull starts hitting harder.

 

He knows that Bull is hitting him with the heels of his big hands, making each double impact stronger than the last. He notices that he’s bent forward to escape the pounding blows, but straightens now to meet them. This is what he wants, this is what he’s after, the force of Bull’s blows throbbing through him, leaving the most amazing ache behind. He makes some kind of surprised exclamation when Bull changes to use his whole hands, slapping his shoulders in shocking impacts that sting terribly. Just when he thinks he can’t take more of that kind of pain, Bull switches to his fists, solid and carefully aimed blows on either side of his spine, overlapping as they slowly move to the outside of his shoulder blades and back in again. He doesn’t realize he’s groaning until the blows stop and he can suddenly hear himself.

 

He’s almost panting, and hears Bull’s steady breathing behind him. He twitches when he feels Bull’s fingers on his aching back again, but this isn’t a blow. Instead, Bull strokes him, running his hands up and down Asher’s back, his shoulders, his sides. The soreness in his back spreads out to the rest of his body.

 

“Stand up,” Bull directs. Doing so leaves Asher’s fingertips grazing the desktop. “Walk to the wall and put your palms on it in front of you.” When he obeys, Bull hums. “You’re doing great, Ash.” Then he rhythmically hits the same parts of Asher’s shoulders with his fists, the same spot, over and over. 

 

The blows increase in strength, and Asher feels like grunts are being shoved out of his lungs. It hurts, fuck, it hurts, but it’s  _ good, _ it’s  _ right,  _ even as tears sting his eyes, unbidden, and Bull switches from fists to open palms. The sharp pain slicing into him makes Asher yell again, and he grits his teeth, heart thundering in his chest. He tries to lessen the blows by leaning forward, but there’s not much room between him and the wall. And only when he is pressed flush against it, his parted lips pressed against the cold stone, does Bull stop striking him. 

 

Bull doesn’t stroke him this time, but does lay a sweaty hand on Asher’s shoulder, steadying him, heavy and inescapable. Asker takes deep breaths, marvelling at the deep hurt, and when Bull doesn’t do anything else, he starts to think that they are done, and feels conflicted. ‘ _ Maybe this is enough…’ _

 

Then Bull presses his thumb right into the middle of one of the spots he had just been hitting. Asher’s groan is startling in the silence, the most amazing pain radiating out from the small point of pressure. He expects Bull to keep pressing, to press harder, but he doesn’t, and Asher turns his head slightly in inquiry.

 

“Push back, Ash.” 

 

He frowns in confusion.

 

Bull’s deep voice is right next to his ear. “Push back. Push into the pain. Show me you can take it.”

 

Asher slowly pushes himself back, bracing himself against the wall, and he doesn’t know why this is better, but it  _ is. _

 

“Show me,” Bull rumbles behind him, “how strong you are.”

 

He pushes against Bull’s finger, against the steady pain, against everything that hurts him but can’t be fixed, until he cannot take any more and collapses into the wall, hands shaking with the thrill of what he’s discovered.

 

With no warning other than removing his thumb (it feels like Asher will have a dent in that spot forever), Bull starts hitting him again. The blows are stronger and quicker now, and although he tries to stay braced out from the wall, after a half dozen blows his arms fold and he is pressed against the wall, lips curled in a snarl, defying the building pain. He growls with each blow, soft and sullen at first but with increasing volume, vocalizing because he needs to be heard over Bull as much as the noise is an involuntary reaction. When Bull switches to slaps again, Asher’s stubborn resistance turns suddenly to tears and he’s gasping, sobs cut short by impacts. 

 

Again Bull seems to know just when Asher would say the word, and he rests his hands on Asher’s shaking shoulders. Aserh sags gratefully against the wall, his upper back throbbing with pain, tears tickling the tender flesh of his throat where they have run down from his cheeks, left leg trembling uncontrollably. Bull roughly kneads the red skin with his hands, and the burst of different pain results in another, louder sob. 

 

Bull leans over him, presses his chest against Asher’s back. “You’re doing so well,” he murmurs. “You can need this, it’s ok.”

 

Once Asher’s breathing is steadier, Bull turns him around. It takes Asher a moment to raise his eyes, to meet Bull’s steady gaze, and he’s very conscious of the tear tracks on his face, the contrast between the heat spilling from his eyes against the itchy cold where past tears have cooled and evaporated.  Bull looks intently at him, completely focused, a small smile of satisfaction on his lips as he surveys Asher’s gasping mouth and his shining, wet cheeks. Then he puts the first knuckle of his pointer finger against Asher’s sternum and pushes. 

 

Asher knows the stone wall is  _ not  _ going to feel nice on his battered back, so he resists a little, then more when he catches Bull’s encouraging smirk. With a reckless grin he leans forward, meeting Bull’s pressure. Even as he groans with pain, he meets Bull’s eye and bares his teeth in a not-quite smile. He reaches forward to press his own bent knuckles into Bull’s broad chest, and Bull laughs, leaning into Asher’s fists. 

 

“Think you’re gonna win this one?” he asks, and shoves Asher back into the wall. With him distracted by the sudden flare in his back, Bull starts pummeling his pectorals with the heels of his hands.

 

Asher leans forward, letting each impact push his back against the stone, exalting in the marvellous pain, the clarity he feels. He laughs, has no idea why, and giggles breathlessly when he realizes he can’t push himself forward anymore, that all he can do is struggle to keep standing and endure Bull’s knowing gaze and the hits that keep coming. One particularly hard blow turns a laugh into a sob, and he feels his chest bowing in, something breaking loose inside his heart, and Bull stops pounding on him while he cries. Bull is still touching him, one hand cupping a tender pectoral, the other comforting on his shoulder.

 

When his tears subside for the moment, Asher straightens up, stares at Bull with a hint of challenge, and punches Bull in the chest. Bull catches his wrist in one hand and backhands Asher’s chest with the other. He squirms against the new pain and tries to brace himself against the wall with his free hand, grimacing. Bull releases his wrist but grabs his shoulder in a bruising grip, holds him against the wall, and presses his other hand hard into Asher’s sore body.

 

Suddenly, the pain makes him want to fight back, and he does with a shout, sweeping his arms up to break Bull’s hold. They grapple, and Bull must be pulling his strength because Asher isn’t a pretzel yet, but Asher keeps trying, keeps struggling, feels each indentation of Bull’s too-strong fingers as a bright flare of triumph, of being alive. Bull easily catches him in a headlock and forces him to one knee, pushing relentlessly and roughly at bruised spots while Asher struggles to regain both feet, squirming ineffectively in Bull’s hold. He’s gratified to hear that Bull is breathing more heavily, but not nearly as hard as himself. He manages to surge forward away from the wall but Bull pivots and slaps him back to his knees with a broad blow against his throbbing back and Asher lets out a brief scream.

 

Suddenly he’s tired, so tired, and Bull’s next punch to the meat of his shoulder blade radiates through his whole body. It feels like it echoes around a hollow core. He sniffles, tears spilling down his face again, weakly pushing against a mountain for no other reason than he has to try, even knowing it’s useless. It's not enough; he’s not enough, but that doesn’t matter. He will try until he fails.

 

Bull senses the change and shifts his grip, putting one big hand on the back of Asher’s sweaty neck and steadily pushing down. Asher is on his hands and knees, but he won’t, he can’t stop; he locks his elbows, braces himself against the floor and refuses to buckle, refuses to bow down.  _ ‘Until you can’t get up again,’  _ sounds through his head and he tries to get to his feet but then Bull’s other hand grips the top of his shoulder and he’s somehow digging mercilessly into sore spots on his back and front, at the same time. The pain is so bright and inexorable that Asher screams again before falling to his knees, left arm splayed out in front of him, right folded under his torso. He tries one last time to push himself against Bull, but only ends up twitching. He feels completely drained, exhausted, muted pain throbbing through him with each heartbeat. He’s gasping, breath too high in his lungs and catching on small sobs in his dry mouth, wet face resting on the worn carpet. Bull is still pressing a fist into his back with the other hand on the back of his neck, and Asher moans as he goes completely limp, weeping softly. 

 

*****

 

He doesn’t know how he ends up in bed, splayed on his front, but his mouth is moist and he doesn’t feel thirsty anymore. He knows Cullen is by his side, gently stroking his back. The corner of the bed dips under Bull’s weight, and they are talking, Bull’s hand gently massaging a hitherto unnoticed cramp out of Asher’s left calf. 

 

Eventually Asher asks, “Now what?” As tired as he is, it comes out sounding more like, “nu-uht?” and he feels Cullen chuckle against him. 

 

Even as muddled as the words were, Bull answers him. “Well, that depends. Since we didn’t talk much about ‘what next’, I’ll stay here until you stop slurring, and then we’ll talk. After that, I can stay or leave, but either way I’m going to check in tomorrow to see how you’re doing. What we just did can stir up a lot of unexpected emotions. If that happens, I want to know what they are. Because Cullen is here, I’m not going to insist on staying.”  Bull shifts and begins to lie down on Asher’s other side, pausing to (Asher assumes) check with Cullen, who must have nodded his consent because then Bull’s body is warm beside him and a large hand is following Cullen’s over his skin. “Once we know how you react to this, then we can discuss other answers to ‘now what’.”

 

They are silent for a moment. 

 

“I feel so good right now,” Asher proclaims, the statement muffled by a pillow. He can hear Cullen's grin as his lover says, “That’s good, Ash.”

 

“No, I mean,” Asher starts, pushing up to brace himself on his elbows and moaning loudly as the effort ignites sullen pain throughout his torso. “Fuck, Maker, that’s  _ amazing. _ Andraste’s…” he pauses, winces as taking a deep breath stretches bruised muscles, “fucking tits.” He arches his back, luxuriating in how sore he feels. “What other answers are there?”

 

Neither answer at first, but he fills the silence by groaning as he gingerly moves, stretching this way and that. Maker’s Breath, this was so much better, so much  _ more,  _ than anything he’d felt before. He feels invincible, if one could be invincible while also as worn out as a dishrag.and the triumph isn’t undercut by any thread of guilt because he asked for this, he was  _ given _ this. He suddenly feels overcome with gratitude, gratitude to Bull who did it, to Cullen who noticed and knew and understood and didn’t judge him. His groans turn into breathy gasps as he tries to pull himself onto Cullen, wanting to feel him, wanting somehow to  _ share _ how incredible this is. He feels lighter than he has in months, he wants to--

 

“I wanna fuck you,” Asher says into Cullen’s throat, and he swears he can feel Cullen’s skin warm in a blush as he mutters “Maker!” into Asher’s hair, “but I don’t think I can move that much.”

 

Iron Bull laughs loudly, a warm, satisfied sound that makes Asher feel even more languid, which prompts him to press his thigh against Bull’s body. “That’s one other answer.”

 

Asher raises limpid eyes to Cullen’s amused ones. “Next time?”

 

“Next time,” Cullen promises, lips twitching with amusement.

 

Asher reaches behind him, blindly grasping until Bull shows mercy and takes his hand. “Maker’s taint, you’re strong,” Asher marvels to Cullen’s collarbone.

 

Cullen snorts. “And you are as high as the moons,” he observes fondly.

 

“Mmmm,” he agrees, snuggling closer, amazed at how his heartbeat seems to expand out from his chest and through his body, dragging amazing pain with it.  He drifts, aware that Cullen and Bull are softly speaking around him, immersed in feeling his own body and them surrounding him.

 

*****

 

Asher awakens the next morning feeling rested, and he doesn’t wonder about it until he tries to move and his back  _ throbs _ with deep, aching pain. He can’t stifle his moan and Cullen starts slightly, turning to face him and carefully rubbing a hand over his sore back. “Ash?” he asks.

 

Asher breathes steadily and deeply, bringing air and his awareness  _ into _ the pain the way he did last night. “Maker,” he whispers, “it worked. It  _ worked;  _ I’m okay, Blessed Andraste!” He’s crying again, feeling lightheaded with relief, reeling because it worked, just like Cullen said it would, just like Bull said, and he wasn’t broken or wrong. All he had to do was stretch and he’d feel proof that he was here, that he was strong. He was still speaking nonsense to Cullen, his soul feeling suddenly lighter from a burden he’d carried for so long he’d forgotten how heavy it was. Cullen makes soothing noises, his hand ghosting over Asher’s body, apparently neither surprised nor dismayed at his lover’s sudden emotions. 

 

When Asher’s tears of relief have run their course, he smiles at Cullen. “Thank you,” he says, pulling himself up and hugging Cullen, trying to express his gratitude. He knows that a hug is not nearly enough, so he kisses him, pushing him back into the pillows. His effort to thank Cullen through kisses is interrupted because he can’t quite keep from moaning with the soreness he feels, and after the kiss gets messier and messier they stop, laughing. 

 

Cullen smirks, his scarred lip looking impossibly sexy. “I’m confused; were those noises of pleasure or pain?”

 

Asher grins and grinds against Cullen in a way that was  _ supposed _ to be sexy, but he catches himself on a wince halfway through, ruining the effect, and they laugh again. When he’s caught his breath he replies, “It’s amazing how much they can sound alike.”

 

Cullen clears his throat and averts his eyes. “Indeed,” he murmurs, a flush rising on his cheeks. 

 

Asher watches him and grins.  “Cullen?”

 

“Mmm?”

  
“Why are you blushing?” 


End file.
